Musicians have to Stick Together
by Nutcase friend
Summary: A short story about Miguel's childhood listening to a traveler play, someone who visits Santa Cecilia every year for Dia des los Muertos, the Day of the Dead.


Santa Cecilia was almost always warm. Warm and dry, warm and rainy, warm and humid. In October, coming up to Dia des los Muertos, Santa Cecilia was humid, bustling and noisy, adults and kids alike running back and forth through the town, carrying pots of marigolds, hangers of costumes, and cases full of black and white make up.

Signs and canvas posters were being strung up from buildings rooftops, and business owners chalked a new design onto their boards to put out in the street, directing their fellow townspeople and tourists to their wares.

Miguel finally struggled from the fussing of his Abuelita, the heavy footstool slung over his shoulder, and followed the familiar dusty streets to the busier business areas. He was at first tempted to try where the stadium sat, but decided against it. He was barely ten, but already knew the might of his Abuelita, and could imagine her reaction at learning he was hanging around those 'good for nothing musicians.'

But Miguel knew it was late enough in October, that it was hard to avoid Players anywhere in town, and it also meant that somewhere, his favourite traveller would be around.

Impatience started itching at him as he knelt on the cobbles, buffing people's shoes. He was glancing over his shoulders until his neck got a cramp, and barely paid attention to his client's voices, giving them terse answers like 'yeah' and 'uhuh, totally.'

Eventually, he started hearing the ever-comforting and frightening sound of a guitar's strings being plucked, and double-timed his polish on the final tourist's shoes (which were of astonishingly bad quality anyway; Miguel tried not to judge people by their shoes like the rest of his family, but he still had a raised bar when it came to shoe quality).The tourist, a middle-aged man in a shirt with an explicit sugar-lady on it, gave him some money with a strange smile, and Miguel gave him a polite 'adios' before rushing to the sound.

As usual, what he saw first was other ragged children like himself, dressed in light clothing like sleeve-less dresses and singlets, surrounding a hidden figure by a doorway. It was the Abascal house, a family who was a lot quieter and kinder than Miguel's, at least kinder to musicians. Especially _this_ musician.  
Miguel managed to squeeze between the familiar neighbourhood kids, and grinned when he saw the hidden visitor.

Fritz, the foreigner. A young man who every year travelled to Mexico from all the corners of the Earth for Dia de los Muertos, and had been coming since Miguel could only just remember. Fritz had dirty blonde hair, and was tall, a lot taller than most people from Mexico. He was tanned compared to most of the pale visitors, but still looked light compared to a Mexican. He was lean and long, with rough, scarred hands, which danced across the rifts, sliding down chords.

He smiled at the children, giving them showy exchanges from one chords to another. He didn't pick as much as Miguel liked to, Fritz was a fan of strumming.  
When Fritz saw Miguel, he winked knowingly, glancing over the children's heads to watch for Miguel's relatives, and relaxed when he saw none.  
Miguel managed to wriggle his way forward and sat with the smallest of the children in the front of the small crowd, hands in his lap as he watched.

Fritz was nowhere near as good as Ernesto de las Cruz, not even as good as some of the other street players, but his playing was so different, it was mesmerising. It was a new style, a stranger's sound, so smooth and calm compared to the erotic strumming and plucking of the Latin sound that Miguel knew.  
Eventually, the childrens' impatient parents came and found them, dragging them sadly from the foreigner. He would frown sadly after them, and flick them a few light chords, before continuing. It wasn't long before Miguel was the only one left, but he was becoming more and more paranoid about his family finding him, in front of another musician.

"So, Miguel, how is your playing?" Fritz asked. He had a strange accent from a far-off land, not even that of the United States, who were the most common tourists. It was also the first time he'd spoken for the hour or so he'd been entertaining.

Miguel picked at his well-worn laces, and shrugged. "I'm better than last time you saw me."

"I would hope so, twelve hours, twelve days, twelve months, it's plenty of time to improve." Fritz's Spanish, after visiting so often, had gotten rather fluent, and the few times Miguel had heard him speak English, it sounded like the Spanish accent was making its way into his voice. "Your family still don't know?"

Miguel hung his head, and shook it slowly. "They can never know."

"They will one day, but it's better for it to be on your own terms." Fritz let his last strung hum out, then removed the guitar and placed it against the wall. Miguel imagined he could still hear it humming on and on, the melody rising and falling even when no fingers touched its strings.

"Do you want to give it a shot?" Fritz asked, nodding his head to the guitar.

As usual, Miguel's heart started beating faster at the idea of playing a guitar, not just the busted up, old-stringed one he hid in the roof, but a sleek, well-cared for acoustic. His heart equally hammered at the images of his family, all of them, appearing suddenly and grabbing at him, tearing the guitar away and forcing him into the workshop to make shoes until the callouses on his hands changed from those caused from metal strings, to those caused by hard leather.

"Forget it, it's probably easier on you if I don't offer." Fritz said, kindly, but the truth no less hurt. It _was_ easier if Fritz didn't offer, didn't tempt Miguel, who already hid away to practice in the only spare hours he had left in his life.

Miguel decided to forget about it, to try think of something else. "So, where did you go this time?"

Fritz took a deep breath in with a smile, and placed his arms behind his head as he leaned back against the door frame.  
"Well, well, where did I go?" He freed one arm to grab something from the same old backpack he carried everywhere, and pulled free the old, brown, tattered map that Miguel had looked over a thousand times. Fritz handed it to him with a smile.

Miguel undid the string that held it rolled, and laid it out, using his shoes to weigh down the top corners and some old bricks for the bottom. The map was large, even longer across than Miguel's arm span.

"Here, I went back and visited one of my oldest and greatest friends, travelled India with him. I spent some time in these countries," he pointed to Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan.

"Mamma says those countries are in war." Miguel said in confusion.

"Yes, very badly."

"Then why go?"

Fritz laughed. "You do realise how bad a reputation Mexico has, right? All my friends and family asked that same question. 'Why go there? It's so poor. Why go there?There's always fighting.'" He waggled his finger at Miguel. "Those things do not scare me away from seeing the world."

Miguel understood, now. _Why play music? It barely pays. Why dream for a guitar? Music is only cursed._

"I wish I could be like you." Miguel said, looking dreamily at the coloured lines and scribbles on the map. Past and future places. "Look how free you are!"

"It's nice, yes, but there are down sides." Fritz said evenly.

"What could they be!?" Miguel said, "You can go wherever you want, be whoever you want, do whatever you want!"

"I told you this last time, Amigos." Fritz said, sitting forward, looking stern. "The closest thing I have to a family is here in Mexico, with the Abascal's. And I am only here for one month a year. The road is a very lonely place, Miguel, you'd be surprised how much you miss a familiar bed, or even a familiar patch of dirt."

Miguel groaned, and laid back in the dirt. "I know, I know."

"You still have enough freedom to play, even if it is in secret for a while." Fritz said, ruffling Miguel's hair as he stood.

"Fritz! Lunch!" a woman called, and appeared in the doorway Fritz had been leaning against. She was middle aged, with a few strips of white hair going through the shiny black, and her faced was lined like most mothers' faces were.

"Oh, Hola Miguel, would you like to have lunch with us?" She gave him a wide smile, wiping her spice-smelling hands on an old apron.

"No, I should be heading home, but gracias Senora Abascal." Miguel stood and rolled up Fritz's map, and handed it to him with care. "How long are you staying this time?"

"Same as always, enough to help out with Dia des los Muertos, play around. Probably a month, amigos." Fritz elbowed his lightly in the shoulder. "Go home to that anciana, and don't tell her I'm around. Here, so she doesn't suspect you weren't working this whole time." Fritz put a handful of coins into Miguel's palm, and Miguel gasped appreciatively.

"Gracias Fritz! See you soon!"

"Not too soon, my fingers need rest sometimes you know." Fritz called after him, as Miguel hurried back down the alleys and streets towards home.

It was sad that Fritz was not strictly welcome at the Rivera home, Miguel would have loved it if he stayed with them. When Fritz first came to Santa Cecilia, it was of course a surprise. It was not a big town, and it's celebrations weren't big enough to attract more tourists than the ones on the busses that made stops there on the way to bigger places. He had walked into the town with nothing but a backpack and a guitar, and a smile wide enough to break glass.  
He barely had enough to stay in the local hotel for the night, so he'd gone around town asking for houses to stay, saying he would work for his bed. Most places couldn't afford the extra person, or didn't have enough room. When he'd tried the Rivera house, Miguel remembered begging for his mother and Grandmama to let him stay, but the moment she saw the guitar case, she threw her shoe at his head, making him duck.  
The Abascal house had nothing against music like the Rivera's, and had the room. Ever since, Fritz had been watching the kids, helped fixing the house or going tothe larger towns to shop for them, in exchange for food and board. After it went on for a few years, eventually he became the eldest brother to the Abascal kids, and a local help. He knew a lot of things, and it came in handy. Sometimes he gave the local kids lessons in English or History, but because he always had his guitar with him, Miguel's Grandmama never let him go. Miguel made it through the gates at home, and could already smell lunch. He handed the money to his Abuelita, and as Fritz guessed, she didn't suspect he'd been wasting his time at all, and handed Miguel one of the coins to spend or save however he wished.

* * *

The next day, it was the same, and the next day, and the day after that. However, Fritz had less and less time to play because he was helping the adults of the village with building stands, painting signs, and even helping the seamstress' with costumes, but Miguel suspected that had to do with the pretty seamstress' daughters than an interest in costumes.

The best times was when Senora Abascal asked him to watch the children while she did some work, and he would take them out into the town, carrying one on his back, and the other two hanging off his shoulders or arms, and soon would again have the small crowd around him, wanting to ride on his back or play the guitar.  
One day, when he had escaped the some-times tiring clutches of the children, and the commands of the adults, he snuck his way down some alley ways towards the Rivera house. It was late in the afternoon, and he knew they would be having dinner soon, also knowing that this was Miguel's favourite time to practice, because his family were too busy bustling about to look for him, and always assumed he was just playing with friends nearby.

Fritz made his way to a large tree that grew outside the Rivera walls, and climbed up its trunk to reach the tiled roof. He wasn't as light as Miguel, but light enough that he didn't make too much noise or was spotted by any of the Rivera family, and made it to the shoe sign that hid Miguel's shrine for Ernesto des las Cruz.  
Fritz quietly moved the sign aside and climbed in, and heard Miguel's shocked gasp.

"Shh, it's just me, Fritz."

Miguel sighed out in relief. "I thought you were my Abuelita, coming to box me round the ears with her shoe."

"Nice joke, your Abuelita couldn't climb up here at her age."

"Oooooh, don't underestimate her." Miguel said in a warning tone. "She'd give you a run for your money."

"She already gives me a run for my life, Miguel." Fritz crawled his way over through the dusty hold, and sat next to Miguel, paying little attention to the shrine. To be completely honest, he didn't like Ernesto des las Cruz that much, but it was just a matter of personal taste.

"Here, I brought you something." Fritz said, and Miguel's eyes widened as he pulled something from his pocket. "I had them specially ordered in the other day."  
In his palm was a packet of new, shiny strings, a small packet of picks, and a string and fret cleaner.

"Wow!" Miguel said, taking them gently. He was totally dumb struck. He'd never been able to afford buying proper kit before, even the guitar he currently had was one he'd taken weeks to make, and a few strings from the local music stores rubbish.

"Your strings are just getting too old and sticky, and they go out of tune all the time, right?" Fritz asked.  
Miguel nodded, simply staring at the presents.

Fritz sighed. "I'm sorry I couldn't afford getting you a proper guitar," he looked over to where Miguel had it lying, feeling his own face scrunch up at its appearance. Miguel was a good player, he deserved better instruments than one he had to make in secret.

"No, don't be, you can barely afford the own shirt off your back." Miguel joked, knowing that wealth was nothing Fritz was concerned about, but then a sudden realisation hit him. "Oh no! How much did getting these cost you!?"

"Calm down, it was nothing really. I saved up from a few busks, that was all. But I'm saving up for a van, so I can stop crashing at the Abascal house."  
Miguel felt tears come to his eyes. Fritz was the only person apart from Mama Coco and Dante his dog that knew about his playing, and was the only one that helps him, regarding guitar anyway.

"Next time, I promise, I'm getting you the best guitar money can buy this side of the border."

Miguel smiled so wide he thought his cheeks would split. "Why do you never go to the United States."

"Eh, it's overrated, too much like my home country anyway, full of racists and un-cultured red-neck bogans."

"You never talk about your home country." Miguel said.

"It's not really interesting, not much culture or tradition if you're white like me. I like it here, it's got traditions that don't make me gag."

Miguel laughed. "What do you mean?"

"Well, the Dia des los Muertos is one of the coolest events in the world, in my opinion. A night where the dead can walk among us and see how we're doing? I like it." Fritz pulled out a watch face from his pocket; he hated wearing things on his arms, like Miguel.

"Well, your family will be serving, so I better skedaddle." He moved to go, but Miguel scrambled forward and hugged him around the middle. Fritz laughed kindly, giving him a hug back. "Next time I see that guitar, it better have those strings, and they better be in good condition, got it?"

Miguel nodded, and let him go. He wanted to say thank you, but it just wasn't enough, but Fritz ruffled his hair in a way that said he understood, and started crawling from the hatch.

 _3 years later…._

Miguel was practically bouncing as he waited at the front of the Abascal house.

"Calm down Miguel," Senora Abascal laughed, "His timing is always unpredictable."

"I know, I'm just too excited!" Miguel said. He wanted to show Fritz everything that had changed. The town, his family, even himself. He gripped tighter to Hector's guitar that he had resting in his lap, fingers idly playing with the strings. Fritz hadn't been able to make it to last year's Dia de los Muertos, which had been scary and unusual, but also that he'd missed Miguel going to the Land of the Dead, finding the truth behind his great-great-grandfather's disappearance, and discovering that Ernesto des las Cruz had been a murderous fraud. He only knew enough through letters that Senora Abascal's family sent him, and his replies saying how excited he was to see them this year.

Miguel waited until the sun was almost down, and his stomach was growling. The eldest Abascal child had brought him a taco for lunch, after he had said he wouldn't leave the step until Fritz arrived, but since then he hadn't eaten.

He was experimenting with a pattern when he heard the sound of an engine. Only a few families in Santa Cecilia owned cars, and none of them sounded like this one.

He spotted the van make its way down a street across, and then cross the road to park near the front of the Abascal house. Miguel stood, waiting with hope, and gave a start when the driver's door burst open and Fritz leaped from the van.

"Miguel!" He yelled, and Miguel ran forward and leaped as high as he could. Fritz caught him, pulled him into a headlock and rubbed his head with his knuckles. "Woah, what are you now, thirteen? Look how big you've grown!"

"I'm almost as tall as you." Miguel laughed, because of course he was still a good foot shorter than Fritz.

"Yeah, almost." Fritz let him go, and looked around. "Wow, this place has changed. Not a single piece of Cruz memorabilia."

Miguel laughed. "You should see the statue, no one cleans it anymore."

"Good riddance." Fritz spotted the guitar, resting where Miguel had left it. "And look, now I don't have to get you a guitar, unless you want a collection like mine."

Miguel grabbed Hector's guitar and brought it to Fritz, who inspected it, but didn't play it. "Nice, very nice. Well, go on, show me what you can do now that you're allowed to play in public."

Miguel eagerly took the guitar back, and didn't hesitate to launch into a song, not 'Remember Me', but something he'd been working on himself, a mix of styles he'd been playing around with.

Fritz smiled wider as he watched him play, then started dancing around on the spot, matching moves he'd learned from the locals to the beat.

"Have you got lyrics to it yet?" Fritz asked as he danced around.

"No, not yet. Do you think it needs them?"

"You could play around with some, find some that might fit. If you don't find anything, leave it as it is. Usually the lyrics are written first, though."

"I know, but I'm not as good at lyrics." Miguel said.

"Luckily, I am." Fritz said.

"I see you didn't find any modesty while you were away." Said Senora Abascal from the doorway, and they both stopped.

Fritz laughed nervously. "Unfortunately, no."

Senora Abascal came forward, clicking her tongue. "Look at you, dirty as always, you smell like sweat. And what's this?" She pointed to the van.

"Ahuh!" Fritz exclaimed, and bounced over to the spray-painted van, covered in artistic colours and paintings of marigold flowers and skeletons. "It's my mobile home, I don't need to keep the kids up with my snoring anymore."

"No, but they'll keep you up with their whining." She responded.

Fritz laughed. "Come here Miguel, have a look." He opened the back hatch of the van. Inside, there was a small, simple mattress on the carpeted floor, a few boxes of books and cooking equipment and a bag of clothes, but most of the space was taken up by music equipment.

"Whoa!" Miguel said loudly.

Fritz switched a light on in the roof of the van, illuminating the insides.

There were two acoustic guitars, one banjo, a ukulele, and an electric guitar, complete with a few amplifiers sitting next to the wall. A few car batteries and a generator was on the passenger seat. Miguel jumped back with a yell when something leaped from the light sheets of the bed.

Fritz laughed as he watched Miguel get bowled over by a tan coloured dog, this one with fur, then bent down and picked it off him.

Miguel heard Dante from a nearby bunch of trash cans bark, and saw Fritz put his own dog down to play with the Xolo. They both laughed fondly as the dogs chased their way around town.

"Alright, you've seen Fritz now, so go home to your family." Said Senora Abascal.

"Awww," Miguel said.

"No sweat amigos," Fritz said, "I'll take you home in the van, and tomorrow we'll light that centre stage on fire. Those amps aren't even big, but they blow people's faces off." He opened the passenger door. "Hop in."

"Whoo!" Miguel said.

"I'll be back soon Jose," Fritz said, closing his own door.

"You better, or the kids will eat your dinner." She said sternly, and went back inside.

"Alright, chuck this one in Miguel," Fritz handed him a CD.

"Wow, a real stereo system!" Miguel said. His family only had old record players, and their only cassette player had broken recently.

"Yup. Let's disturb the neighbours a bit."

Fritz started the van up, and Miguel threw the CD in the stereo, and music jumped from the speakers as they drove down the road. When they pulled up outside Miguel's home, his grandmother stomped from the gate and threw one of her shoes at Fritz, despite her new tolerance for music.

"Ayaya, what did I do this time!?" Fritz said, cowering from her attack.

"You drag our good boy home late, with that music waking half the town. You better not be here for dinner." She pointed her other shoe at his face threateningly.

"Calm down Senora, I'm just dropping Miguel off." He gently pushed her shoe away from his face.

"Come on Abuelita, he's a friend!" Miguel said, dragging her back to the house, "And besides, I'm hungry."

That caught her attention, and she clapped her hands together, "Well, let's get you dinner then. And you, go home to Jose!" She yelled at Fritz, who shrugged with a smirk, and jumped back into the van.

"Wait, how long are you staying this time?!" Miguel yelled over the sound of the engine.

"Oh, didn't Jose tell you?" he flicked the music on, "I'm sticking around for a while, I got a job at the tourism centre."

"Really!?"

"You bet. I'm done being lonely Miguel." Fritz smiled at him, looking the same all the years he'd been coming to Santa Cecilia. "See you tomorrow?"

"See you Tomorrow!" Miguel said excitedly, waving to him as he drove off down the road.

His Abuelita huffed behind her. "Perfect, that ruffian is going to be a regular guest at dinner I suppose."

"Of course," Miguel said with a smile, "He's a musician, like me."


End file.
